


give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light

by Embene26



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Shadow of the Tower, The White Princess (TV), The White Queen (TV), Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England - Thomas Penn
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 11:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10852644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embene26/pseuds/Embene26
Summary: In which Elizabeth of York marries Charles VIII of France instead of Henry Tudor and finds that a crown does not necessarily equate to happiness.





	give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light

**Author's Note:**

> From 1475-1482, Elizabeth of York was betrothed to the then Dauphin of France, the future Charles VIII. This fic is a creative take on what might have occurred had the marriage gone through.
> 
> Title from the Mumford & Sons song, “Ghosts That We Knew”

Elizabeth had known that she would marry the the Dauphin of France ever since she was nine years old but when the wedding day finally arrived, she could not help but feel ill-prepared for the occasion. 

The betrothal had been rushed forward due to her father’s failing health, no doubt because of her mother’s canniness for political timing, as her father was seemingly oblivious to matters pertaining to marriage. But even he had been furious with the French king’s withdrawal of the seven year-engagement between his eldest daughter and Prince Charles, viewing it as a rejection of the bond of friendship England was attempting to forge with their long-time rival.

Her mother had seen it differently, however, arguing that King Louis was disconsolate with the idea of the Valois dynasty being “tainted” by English blood. The French had fought more than a century to keep England from seizing their throne and now that Elizabeth had finally come of age, King Louis was more than likely wary of having his son and successor produce half-English heirs. Undoubtedly the idea of his future scion being descended from the kingdom the French so valiantly bested in that century-long war did not sit well with the old king.

While Elizabeth’s father had been the one to stipulate a betrothal between herself and the Dauphin when he invaded France all those years ago, it was her mother who ultimately rescued the union. After a series of tense talks with France failed, Queen Elizabeth had shocked all of England by arranging an impromptu meeting with the her French counterpart, Charlotte of Savoy, in Calais during the summer of Elizabeth’s sixteenth year. 

The whole of Europe watched with interest as the two queens met in what the Francophobic lords of England sneered at as a futile congregation of a few hapless women. Their expectations were shattered upon Queen Elizabeth’s triumphant return to London weeks later, having reestablished the marriage treaty between Elizabeth and the Dauphin. The English had been in a state of disbelief for nearly a month with some nobles even suggesting that Louis’s pious queen had gone behind his back to marry off their son against his wishes but anyone with some sense knew that King Louis would have never allowed his wife to rearrange the betrothal without his express permission. 

Elizabeth herself had not accompanied her mother to Calais but she knew exactly why through his wife, King Louis had agreed to follow through with her marriage to his son. The whole thing was simply a show of power, for France would have never allowed a future French-born prince of English blood to wear the crown without some reciprocation on England’s part. Therefore, along with England’s promise that a marriage between Elizabeth and the Dauphin would ensure an interdict to a war with France on England’s part, it was agreed to that the first daughter born to any one of the Dauphin’s elder sisters, Anne and Joan, would marry Elizabeth’s younger brother Edward when they came of age. 

It had been decided that Elizabeth’s marriage would be held within the next few years to ensure that the French did not renegade on their promise a second time but no one expected the wedding to occur less than half a year after the summer meeting between the two queens. It was only after the autumn of the same year that Elizabeth’s mother decided to set a new wedding date for February of the new year, not long after Elizabeth’s seventeenth birthday. Although her mother insisted that the change was due to the fact that Elizabeth was not getting any younger with each passing day, Elizabeth knew better. She heard the whispers of the lords and ladies of the court, even if they believed that she was oblivious to the gossip and scheming taking place right under her nose. Her father’s health was waning and everyone in London was well aware that that King Louis would break off the betrothal once more if Elizabeth’s father was dead.

Elizabeth had been unable to enjoy what might have been the last time she participated in the Christmas festivities with her family. Being surrounded by her parents and siblings only served as a reminder to what she would soon leave behind. She would never see little Catherine and Bridget, now just babbling babes, grow into young ladies or her younger brothers’ journey into adulthood. Her marriage to the Dauphin would never heal the animosity England and France would always share for one another, so it was highly doubtful that her husband’s family would permit her to visit home often. 

Cecily, now her closest sister in age upon Mary’s death in the spring, could not understand how her older sister viewed such a fortuitous marriage with trepidation.

“You will be Queen of France, Bess,” Cecily would say each and every time Elizabeth voiced her grievances. “A whole kingdom will be yours to rule, alongside your husband of course. And it’s France! Think of all the beautiful dresses you will wear…the pageantry of the French court! It’s all you could ever want!”

No, Elizabeth thought to herself as Cecily droned on about the French fashions, tastes, and extravagances. It is all you’ve ever wanted, sister.

Cecily was just thirteen years-old, far too young to know what she truly desired in life. But at such a vulnerable, naive age, every girl dreamed of becoming a queen and living a life of luxury. They, like Elizabeth herself years ago, believed that life was a song where a chivalrous knight would sweep the gracious lady off her feet and true love would prevail. Reality was far more cruel. Marriage was not made for love but for politics, land, riches, and dynasty.

Her sweet sister was too young to remember when the Kingmaker had briefly snatched the throne away from their father more than a decade ago, when their pregnant mother fled with them to sanctuary while Father fought to take back his crown. Elizabeth recalled those dark times as clearly as if they had happened just a fortnight ago. She was five years old then, a mere child, and had not understood the gravity of the situation at the time. But she had understood the fear in her mother’s eyes, how no one could sleep through the night without having nightmares of Father’s fate, how horribly Mother had wailed in agony when she received word of the executions of her father and brother. 

Simply becoming a queen did not ensure security in the slightest, Elizabeth had learned. If anything, a crown only brought sorrow and suffering to all who were misfortunate enough to wear one.

A month after the new year arrived, Elizabeth boarded a ship set to land in the same Calais port her mother had recently returned from. Only now she would have to watch the same ship that delivered her to France sail back to England while she was wedded and bedded. 

Her entire family came to see her off, a fair-haired brood of the young and old all richly attired and adequately adorned. She kissed her youngest siblings goodbye and hugged the older ones, wiping away Cecily and Anne’s tears whilst struggling to hold back her own. When her father took her in his arms and told her how much he would miss her, for a brief moment she could almost see the young and handsome king he had been in her youth. It was only when she released herself from his tight embrace that she saw the gray in his hair, the rolls of fat straining beneath his doublet, and the lines about his eyes.

Though Elizabeth had never been close with her father, that did not mean she held no love for him. It was not his fault that most of his days revolved around running the kingdom and fighting for his throne instead of caring for his children. What she could not forgive was how he spent his nights whoring and drinking as if he was still a youth of twenty instead of attending to his children. Her mother seemed to love him for it all the same and he her, yet Elizabeth still felt as if she was the one being slighted when her mother slept alone.

Perhaps that was why parting from her mother was the hardest of all her goodbyes. She had maintained her composure up until it came time to bid her farewell and it was only when her mother gave her a rueful smile, eyes wet with unshed tears, and told her what a gracious queen she knew she would be that Elizabeth felt a few treacherous tears of her own slide down her cheeks. 

Her mother, still beautiful despite the physical ramifications of age and stress, clasped her to her breast as if she were still a suckling babe and whispered in her ear, “Remember who you are, Elizabeth. You are a princess of England, a descendant of the great kings of old and an ancestor of those yet to be. But you, my sweet girl, are and will always be my daughter, no matter who you wed or which throne you occupy.”

In the end, Elizabeth was able to board the ship and wave goodbye to her family one last time before they disappeared from sight. She remained on the ship’s deck watching the English coast grow smaller and smaller on the horizon while her retinue and the crew bustled about, prepping the party for the ensuing journey across the Channel. Elizabeth was oblivious to it all, keeping her eyes fixed on the churning waves of the rolling tide even when her Uncle Edward and her half-brother Thomas, both of whom had been chosen by her parents to be her principal chaperones, bade her go inside and escape the chill that was beginning to set in.

“No,” she replied firmly, keeping her back to them and her eyes on the sea. “I wish to stay out here a little while longer.”

Her uncle and brother did not bother to protest and after a minute of uncomfortable silence, decided to shuffle inside, leaving her alone with only the sound of the waves churning against the sides of the ship to keep her company. 

It was when the English coastline fully disappeared from view that she finally let go, her sobs swallowed by the symphony of the sea. 

~

She saw her betrothed for the first time when she disembarked in Calais. 

Elizabeth had been shown a painting of her future husband back in England and was well-aware of his ugliness but upon seeing him face-to-face, she had to remind herself to mask her displeasure. Thankfully, the decorum that had been drilled into her by her governesses and her mother for years worked in her benefit now. 

Charles, the twelve year-old Dauphin, was a sickly boy with a sallow, unhealthy complexion and bulbous dark eyes which were constantly darting about nervously. He was ill-proportioned - his bony and frail limbs were seemingly stunted in growth, making it seem as though she towered over him. Though his frame was small, his features were anything but and Elizabeth tried not to stare too pointedly at his large, aquiline nose or thick, flapping lips. She couldn’t help but pity the poor prince for his unfortunate physical appearance and she only hoped that his character did not compliment his exterior. 

The French party that came to receive her was extravagant to say the least. She saw the dark blue banner of the fleur-de-lis wherever she turned, just as what her mother told her to expect. The French loved to show off their power, to impress and dazzle their opponents on the European stage with pomp and finery, so it is not surprising for Elizabeth to see just how many knights on horseback are there to catch a glimpse of their future queen. 

With her uncle and half-brother by her side and her trail of gawking ladies behind her, she approached the Dauphin slowly, her shoulders thrown back and her head held high. Beside the sniffling prince was a large, old man dressed richly in dark, ermine-lined red robes with a gilded fur cap set atop his bald brow. It only took her one look at his jutting nose to realize that the elderly man before her was King Louis XI, her soon to be father-in-law and liege lord. 

To his right was a tall, rod-thin woman about her mother’s age clothed in a high-necked gray gown with beady eyes and prominent features. Underneath the woman’s hennin, Elizabeth gathered that this must be Queen Charlotte, the consort who her mother met in this same location just months ago. Directly behind her were two young women, the eldest just as tall and severe-looking as the queen and the younger sharing the same disagreeable features as the Dauphin and the King.

Elizabeth stopped before the king and dipped into a low curtesy, announcing loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear, “It is an honor to finally meet you, Your Majesty. You have a lovely family and I only wish that I was able to introduce you to my own as well.”

King Louis’s scowl remained firmly plastered on his face but Elizabeth saw that he approved of her looks from the way he raked his tumid eyes over her body, no doubt appreciative that his English counterpart had sent him exactly what he desired, “You may rise, Princess Elizabeth. I take it you had a pleasant journey?”

She wanted nothing more than to return his glower and speak of how she dreaded this day, for it meant that she would have to change her allegiance to France, but instead she smiled gaily and crowed, “I did, thank you, Your Majesty. It seemed as though my arrival could not come soon enough.”

If the French king detected any sarcasm in her tone, he did not address it. Now, after finally seeing her, his interest turned to indifference. Instead, he turned his attention toward his silent family members. After mumbling a hastened introduction of his wife and two daughters, Anne and Joan, Elizabeth greeted them all with a chaste kiss on the cheek in the French fashion. Back home she would have simply nodded or curtsied but now that she was in France, she knew she had to tailor her mannerisms if she wanted to fit in at court. 

When she finally came face-to-face with her betrothed, Charles could not meet her eyes and instead focused his attention on her feet as he placed a hasty, wet kiss on the back of her hand. Elizabeth pitied the poor boy, for she knew that like her, he had no desire to enter into this marriage. But their wishes and wants did not matter. They were just simple pawns in a much larger game, their destinies dictated by the kings and queens of the chessboard. 

It took them about a week to travel from the port in which she had arrived to the favored royal residence of the Château d’Amboise, a miraculous feet considering how large the party of French lords and knights accompanying them was. Most of her English retinue left her at Calais except for the few ladies she would keep in her employment in France, along with her brother and uncle, both of whom who would remain with her until her wedding day. 

Her spirits had been considerably lowered watching the ship that carried her to France sail back to England, yet she tried her best to keep her morale up and maintain her courtesy. Wherever she went, she saw how the French looked at her distrustfully, as if she were their mortal enemy and not their future queen. However, she cannot blame them - France had been England’s bitter rival for centuries and no Frenchman or woman would welcome an English bride for their Dauphin with open arms.

For this reason, she did not make friends easily at court and she found herself spending most of her time in her chambers with her few English ladies either embroidering or brushing up on her knowledge of French history and culture. She was not comfortable being whispered about and gawked at by the lords and ladies of the court but she knew that once she was the Dauphine and the nobility adapted to her presence, her situation would change. 

While she kept up appearances in the presence of the court and the royal family, she still found herself tossing and turning at night thinking of her family back home. She wrote her mother and Cecily constantly but letters were only so satisfying. Though it had only been a month since she last saw them, she missed her parents and siblings dreadfully felt as though she might break from the strain of it all.

Though the king seemed pleased with her physical appearance, as she discerned from the way he ogled he appreciatively from across the dinner table, he never addressed her directly or even acknowledged her in public. Elizabeth knew that she was nothing more than a pretty face to him but she hated the way she was being openly spurned. Yet, she reminded herself that soon he will matter no longer and she will be the one to wear the crown. 

She tried her best to fall into the good graces of Queen Charlotte, going out of her way to spend time with her and her ladies during Mass and taking part in her embroidery sessions, but it was as equally impossible to befriend her simple and pious future mother-in-law as it was her husband. She made more progress with Anne, the Duchess of Bourbon and Charles’s eldest sister, but the hawkish French princess was rarely at court, preferring instead to reside in her husband’s estates.

Charles avoided her as much as possible while the preparations for the wedding were underway, which suited her just fine. He was just a boy after all, not much older than her brothers back home, and she did not doubt his intimidation of the idea of marrying a girl four years his senior, much less one from a country he had been raised to hate. 

Elizabeth could not help but wonder about her betrothed, though. Even after meeting him, she knew little to nothing about him personally - his likes, hobbies, tastes, even his passions. Meals were the only times she was able to see him, as they were forced to sit next to one another by the king and queen at the head table. She tried her best to make casual conversation with him each time but he never replied with more than a handful of words. Her mere presence caused him to blush furiously and slur his words in a state of insecure nervousness.

The only one she truly befriended in the vicious, back-biting arena that was the French court was Charles’s older sister, Joan, a sweet, affectionate girl just two years older than herself. Unfortunately, despite her pure heart, Joan was not an attractive girl. Short and dark, with a sickly pallor and a hunched back, the unfortunate girl walked with a perpetual limp that she said she has had her whole life. Though she did not seem to mind her ugliness, Elizabeth was appalled by the way her own father treated her. Whenever she appeared in the same room as the king, he would turn his nose up at her in disgust and often commented on her hideousness, making his own daughter the laughingstock of his court. Even her own husband and cousin, the Duke of Orléans, followed suit by openly snubbing her and their forced marriage.

Elizabeth knew she was not making any friends by keeping the company of the deformed Joan but she did not care; Joan was the only true-hearted woman she had met thus far, a sentiment she could not say of the numerous beautiful ladies she had already been acquainted with. 

It was Joan who she voiced her frustrations about Charles to, telling her during one of their afternoon strolls through the gardens how she wished he would say more than two words to her. 

Joan listened to everything she had to say, only speaking once Elizabeth had finished, “My brother is not the prince you envisioned, that I am sure. But you are exactly what he imagines a princess should be. Charles is a quiet boy, a shy boy, as you know, while you are a strong, confident, young woman. In time, Elizabeth, he will warm to you. He just has to grow up and come into his own to do so. Have patience, sister, and I am sure you will one day see the man he will soon become.”

She heeded Joan’s advice and gave Charles some space in the few weeks before the wedding was set to take place, doing nothing more than greeting him with a smile each morning and bidding him goodnight. At first, nothing seemed to differ in Charles’s timid nature towards her but every day she reminded herself of the virtue of patience and how she would be lucky to have a hapless, young husband than a cruel, older one. 

So, it came as a complete surprise to her when Charles sought her out one afternoon and invited her to ride horses with him, stammering and nervously wringing his hands all the while. Soon, they were meeting each other at the stables every afternoon and with each passing day they spent time with each other, she found that her husband-to-be might not be so dreadful after all. 

~

Elizabeth married Charles a few days before his thirteenth birthday on a warm spring day in the chapel of the Château de Langeais, a venue determined by the king himself. The manor was new, having recently been rebuilt by Louis in a restoration effort, so it was clear to Elizabeth that the old king decided to hold the wedding there in an attempt to show off his renovation achievements. 

She did not favor Langeais much, with its gloomy atmosphere and stuffy chambers, but she bit back her complaints and allowed her soon-to-be in-laws to plan every detail of the wedding. After all, it was not as if they cared about her opinions. Not once was she asked what she had in mind for the details of her own wedding day, much to her private discontent.

The ceremony was a simple one and thankfully did not last as long as Elizabeth expected. Before the signing of the marriage contract, her ladies had helped her into her wedding gown - one of gold damask and crimson satin hidden under a mantle of ermine. Her hair flowed freely over her shoulders, a sign of her virginity, while her hands and neck were weighted down with the costly jewels gifted to her by her parents before her departure. All her ladies, both English and French, told her how beautiful she looked and how queenly she seemed, but Elizabeth could not help but feel like a child playing dress-up when she looked in the mirror, barely able to recognize herself behind all the jewels and paint.

Everything went by in a blur up until the moment where she and Charles were finally proclaimed man and wife and she had to bend down to allow her boy-husband - drowning in his long, stately robes - to plant a sloppy kiss on her lips, much to the amusement of the lords and ladies in the pews. Though he was still a nervous, insecure child, Elizabeth could see that Charles had developed emotionally in bounds during the last month. Despite his shy, edgy nature and his ugly countenance, Elizabeth could see the romantic buried deep within him just bursting to emerge. She believed that now that they were finally wedded, he would open up to her completely and let his true self shine through. 

The celebrations carried on throughout the night but Elizabeth found that she could barely stomach anything but sweetened wine once the time for the consummation of her marriage drew ever closer. She could tell that Charles was equally as apprehensive for the bedding, despite his attempts to mask the tremors in his hands and the rasp of his voice when he spoke. Was he nervous for the same reason as she? That within hours he, still a boy, will have take the virginity of a woman grown?

Under different circumstances, the consummation of her marriage would have been put off due to Charles’s age but with the French succession on such shaky grounds, it was imperative for Elizabeth to produce a son as soon as possible. Since Charles had no surviving brothers, the next in line was his cousin and Joan’s husband, Louis of Orléans, but all of France was well aware of the King’s inclination to eliminate that cadet branch of his own house. As Joan was sterile and physically handicapped, it would take a miracle for her unwilling husband to get her with child. 

When they finally arrived in their bed chambers after the priest has blessed the marital bed, Charles changed into a simple nightshirt and she in nothing more than a thin shift, she could see how easily aroused he was by the sight of her nearly naked before him. He blushed furiously when he noticed how she was watched his eyes linger on her breasts and the swell of her hips but, despite her mortification, she remembered her duty and reminded him that he was allowed to look at her, his wife, unabashedly now.

That was exactly what she told herself over and over again as she lay on her back atop the bedsheets, a red-faced yet clearly excited Charles above her, while the party that had gathered in the room to watch the consummation closed the curtains around the bed to protect what little decency she would still have by the end of all this. 

I am the Dauphine, she thought when Charles removed her shift, baring her completely to the world, and spread her legs. I am the future Queen of France and soon there will come a day when it will not matter that my husband is just a child, that his parents and a group of strangers watched and listened to him consummate our marriage.

She did her best to remain strong throughout the whole ordeal, yet she found herself unable to look at Charles when he entered her, choosing to close her eyes instead. She cried out at the sharp stab of pain, refusing to let the tears leak out from beneath her closed lids even when Charles murmured a sincere apology in her ear.

Eventually, after Charles went through the appropriate motions and the feeling of agony between her thighs transformed into a dull ache, she did all she could to pretend like she was anywhere else, that a thirteen year-old boy was not moaning into her neck while he thrusted in and out of her, that her uncle and half-brother were not standing somewhere behind the drawn curtains listening to her whimper and writhe, that she was more than a pretty face her with a submissive disposition that her parents sold to France.

It was not pleasurable for her in the least. She was well aware of the satisfaction men like her father had in the bedchamber with willing women - but she was not willing in the least; she was merely doing her duty for the sake of her family and realm. She hoped that maybe once Charles matured into a man and they became more comfortable with each other, their intimate dalliances would become as enjoyable for her as it is for Charles. For now, however, she would just have to hold onto that hope to help her through the long nights ahead. 

~

Elizabeth was dauphine for less than a week when she and the rest of France learned of her father’s unexpected death. Though she was not surprised, as she had known his health had waned dramatically in the last year, she did mourn the loss intensely. Her husband and his family were respectful in permitting her to remain out of the public eye for some time in order to properly grieve, which she did in the company of the ever-attentive Joan, spending their days in church praying for her father’s immortal soul. 

She wrote numerous letters to her mother to try to comfort her, question her, and probe her all at the same time but it took weeks before a response from the now Queen Dowager arrived and when it did, it was vague and far too cordial for Elizabeth’s liking. 

Her mother wrote of nothing but Edward’s funeral arrangements and trivial dealings at court, barely speaking of little Edward, who was now king, or her sisters. This worried her further, as she knew her mother would only write in such a concealed manner if she believed that there were enemies about. And with a vulnerable young boy on a shaky throne, it would be foolish to believe that the crown’s transition would not devolve into war once again. 

When she did return to court garbed in white mourning attire, she threw herself into a whirlwind of public and official duties to distract her from her grief. She and Charles presided over small, ceremonial occasions in the place of the the King and Queen, she organized formal gatherings for the many nobles, ambassadors, and foreign dignitaries who came to visit, and - most importantly - she became involved in numerous charitable functions, much to her in-laws’ consolation. 

While she could not deny that she distributed alms, visited orphanages, and washed the feet of the poor and destitute to flatter her public image, she quickly found that she truly enjoyed giving back to her future subjects in any way that she could. Nevertheless, the people’s love and admiration for her blossomed in such a short period of time that she knew she could one day use her newfound influence to her advantage.

She had barely discarded her mourning gowns before she heard that her brother, king for just two months, has been overthrown by her uncle Richard. At first, she believed it was just rumors and shrugged off the news as nothing but slander but after her uncle declared her parents’ marriage to be invalid and her and her siblings to be illegitimate due to a supposed pre-contract of marriage her father had entered before he wed her mother, she locked herself in her chambers for days, barely eating or sleeping, before Charles and Joan forced her to emerge from her solitude. No one at court questioned her legitimacy, including the King and Queen, but she would be foolish not to acknowledge that her reputation had been stained by her uncle’s treacherous actions. 

Her mother did not write her anymore, having taken sanctuary at Westminster Abbey with her sisters to escape Richard’s grasp, but her letters were not necessary for Elizabeth to understand what has happened in London. With her uncle formally crowned as Richard III and her brothers being held as virtual prisoners in the Tower of London, it was no wonder that she began to abhor her life as Dauphine and long for the tranquil days of her girlhood.

Both Charles and his father tried to keep her as preoccupied as possible so she would not focus all her attention on the ongoing affairs in England but even she could see how gravely her uncle’s proclamation of her illegitimacy insulted them. To say that the future queen of France was nothing but a privileged bastard was an attack against the crown itself, now that she was the wedded wife of the Dauphin. So, although not a word of anything pertaining to England was spoken both privately and publicly by the King, Elizabeth could not help but appreciate how her father-in-law ordered that all relations be cut off between France and the usurper of her brother’s throne.

She could barely stomach the thought that her Uncle Richard, the very man for whom her youngest brother was named, had given into a lust for power and toppled her hapless sibling from the throne before he could even be anointed and crowned. Just the idea of her uncle plotting and scheming to snatch the crown for himself before her father was even cold in his grave made her stomach churn in disgust and outrage. 

Just two months after her uncle was declared king of England, she was about to retire for the night when one of her ladies burst through the door, face flushed and hands trembling, only to drop into a deep curtsy before her and murmur breathlessly, “The king has just breathed his last…Your Majesty.”

Louis’s death did not come as a shock to her, as he had been ill for some time now and the entirety of the court knew it was only a matter of time before he passed on. What did come as a shock to her was when she learned that it was all but certain that her brothers, unseen by anyone for so long now, had been murdered by her treacherous uncle.

This time she did not shut herself in her room and sob uncontrollably into her pillow at the thought of young Edward and Richard dead at her uncle’s hands. Now, as the Queen of France, she held her head high and vowed that she would do everything in her power to ensure that her uncle’s blood would be shed in the place of her tears.

~

Though France was ruled by her sister-in-law and her husband, the Duke and Duchess of Bourbon, until Charles reached his majority, Elizabeth did not hesitate to snatch up power for herself. While Anne managed the country’s affairs adeptly and without any major mishaps, she quickly acknowledges Elizabeth’s popularity as queen and all but named her as co-regent, even going so far as to give her a seat on the King’s council.

At first, the other noblemen who also held council positions protested against giving her, a politically inexperienced English woman, so much sway over the kingdom’s dealings but they changed their tune when she arranged a meeting with Joan’s husband, the Duke of Orléans, and the Duke of Brittany - both of whom threatened to raise an army and overthrow Anne from her position as regent - and successfully charmed them into putting down their arms after promising to release Louis from his unhappy marriage to Joan in favor of a union with the Duke of Brittany’s daughter and heiress. 

Soon, she and Anne were effectively ruling the country in tandem. She signed official documents in her husband’s name, made political appointments, and met with foreign dignitaries - all alongside Anne, of course. She grew close to her formidable sister-in-law, something she would have never envisioned months ago, and did everything she could to help her succeed. 

She became closer to her husband as well and their respect for one another only blossomed with time. Elizabeth knew of Charles’s love for her in a romantic sense, something she could clearly recognize every time he mustered up the courage to visit her bed, but she could not help but love him in anything but a familial sense. She would never feel as passionate for him as he did for her, that much she knew, but after she was crowned in Reims on a spring day in her eighteenth year, she realized that a crown did little to make up for the love she would never experience. 

She never renegaded on her promise to overthrow her uncle and did everything in her power to ensure his throne toppled as quickly as possibly. After hearing of Henry Tudor, the last Lancastrian claimant to the crown, and his efforts to snatch the realm for himself, she publicly gave him her support by convincing Anne to send French troops to England to fight in his name. 

When the letters from her mother arrived informing her that the Yorkists have thrown their support behind Henry Tudor after he announced that he will marry Cecily once he took the throne, she wrote to Tudor herself promising him France’s undying support if and when he did face her uncle on the battlefield. His response was courteous and gracious, even addressing her as his sister-in-law due to his betrothal to her sister, and she found herself wondering what would have occurred had she not married Charles before her uncle usurped the throne. No doubt she would have been Henry Tudor’s wife in her sister’s place and the queen of England, her own home, instead of France.

It was because of her curiosity with what could have been that she extended an invitation to Henry Tudor, who was gathering his supporters in Brittany, to come to court. She was well aware that Tudor would likely do no such thing, for even though she had promised him French shields and swords she was still the daughter of the man who would have had his head all those years ago if he hadn’t fled England for the Continent. With King Henry VI’s death, Henry Tudor became the main Lancastrian claimant to the throne, automatically making him her family’s greatest enemy. And yet, now he was a few steps away from becoming her primary ally. 

With all that in mind, it came as quite a shock when Tudor did affirm her request and promised to appear at court in a few months time, not long before he planned to invade England. Why he decided to meet with her she did not know, but she surmised that perhaps it was his way of showing his support towards his newfound alliance with the Woodville’s and a subtle promise to uphold his betrothal to her sister.

When he does arrive, she arranged to receive him in her apartments rather than openly in front of her husband’s courtiers to avoid any ill-fated gossip they might spread. He entered her chambers without the air of pomp and arrogance other noblemen of his kind carried; instead, he conducted himself with such modesty that if not for his fine robes and the gleaming sword hanging at his belt, she would have mistaken him for a high-brow commoner or a low-level dignitary. 

He was a quiet and shrewd man, that much she knew from her mother’s writings, but those letters failed to convey just how handsome he was. Though he was almost ten years her senior, Elizabeth could not help but admire the Englishman who knelt before her, something her own husband unfortunately did not possess. While he was Charles’s second cousin through his paternal grandmother, a French princess whose first husband had been King Henry V of England, they did not share much in common physically except a sallow complexion and dark, lanky hair. Beyond that, Elizabeth supposed that Henry favored his Welsh ancestors with his tall, slender frame, long features, and dark blue eyes.

After he rose from his bow and she dismissed her ladies from the room, she gave him a gentle smile, “I thank you for indulging me with your presence at court, my lord. I must admit I was quite surprised to hear that you accepted my invitation, for, in all honesty, I was of the impression that you would like to avoid my family and myself as much as possible.”

Tudor did not react to her blunt address other than reward her with an amiable smirk and a slight rise of his brows, “That would be quite hard for me to accomplish, Your Majesty, considering that I will soon be marrying your sister.”

His words were nothing but truthful and yet it was the way he spoke to her, in such a friendly, appreciative manner, that has her blushing like a lovestruck maiden instead of a nineteen year-old wife and queen. She decided to choose her words carefully with him, attempting to strike a balance between amicable and dignified, “Yes, soon I expect to be calling you brother. But as of now, you are nothing more than the Earl of Richmond, once my brothers’ rival and now my unexpected partner in this brutish war.”

At the mention of her brothers, Tudor sobered a bit, his smile drooping and his tone taking on a more serious edge, “I am sorry for your loss, Your Majesty. Whether your brothers were my challengers to the throne or not, they were merely boys and such a despicable end for any young soul is never warranted.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” she sighed, pausing momentarily to maintain her composure before continuing the conversation. “But it seems that in times of war, no man heeds the tenants of morality when it comes to their own kin. Especially when there is such a prize as the Crown of England to be won.”

Tudor simply stared at her unabashedly, his dark blue eyes searching deep within her own for something she could not fathom to guess, so she decided to address a different topic before the situation became too emotional, “Forgive me, my lord, I digress. My intent in summoning you here was not to talk of my sorrows. I simply wanted to thank you for, oddly enough, fighting to take the throne out of my uncle’s hands and into your own. What you will soon attempt will be no easy task, that I am sure, but I have the utmost confidence in your ability to achieve what I know you see as your birthright.”

“I will supply you with all the able-bodied men I can gather under the banner of France,” she continued. “And I will make sure you are well supplied and adequately financed for your expedition. I only wish that I was a man myself and I could take up arms in the name of my family to avenge the sins my uncle has committed. But for now, I can do nothing more than promise you my support and blessing in this conquest.”

No sound except the crackling of the fire in the hearth resounded within her chamber after she finished speaking. She did nothing but watch Tudor in the next passing moments, studying the array of emotions flickering across his face. She was not particularly masterful at reading people’s inner thoughts with a single glance but she was confident enough in her instinctual abilities to look upon the twenty-eight year-old man standing before her and affirm that nothing less than awe, endearment, and respect was written in his eyes.

To her utter astonishment, Henry Tudor suddenly got on his knees before her and, with a gentle touch, brought her hand to his lips. Although the motion was commonplace and not indiscreet in the least, the feeling of his lips on her skin gave her such a sharp, intense sensation that a small shiver ran down her spine.

When his eyes met hers once more, they were so dark she almost felt as though she was staring into a bottomless pool, bubbling and rippling with an unexplained heat, “I thank you for your kind words, my lady,” he murmured against her hand and she was too stunned to correct informal his address of her title. “I only hope that your sister proves to be as magnanimous and enchanting as yourself.”

She could do nothing but gape at him as he released her hand, much to her secret displeasure, and rose to stare at her face-to-face, his lips just inches from her own. With any other man, she would have been appalled at his dexterity but for now…she was far too wonderstruck to put up much of a fight. 

His eyes flickered down to her lips and she could almost see him contemplating such an act they both know would result in his execution and, God forgive her, there is a part of Elizabeth that wishes he would give in to temptation. But Henry Tudor was made of sterner stuff than other men. He merely gave her one last longing glance before stepping back, a knowing smile gracing his features, “There is one thing I wish to ask of you, Your Majesty, if you would be so kind to hear my request.”

Seemingly dumbfounded, she nodded and he continued on without missing a beat, “May I be so bold as to request your favor, so I can wear it on my person when I meet your uncle in battle? That way a part of you will be there alongside myself and my men, just as you wished.”

Elizabeth, her chest so tight she felt as though she could not breathe, acquiesced and pressed one of her handkerchiefs into his fist without so much as a single word, finding herself unable to speak for what must have been the first time in her nineteen years. Henry, like a knight readying himself for a tourney, clutched her favor to his chest for a moment before bestowing a kiss upon the handkerchief and tucking it under his doublet next to his heart, his eyes on her all the while. 

She finally found herself capable of speech when he turned to leave the room, calling out when he was halfway out the door, “Would you be so kind as to stay here, at court, for a few days before you set off for England? I would like to give you a proper send-off, as befits a champion.”

Although she has heard all her life from her Yorkist relatives that Henry Tudor is incapable of emotion, he responded to her question with a broad grin that sent her heart fluttering, “As you wish, my lady.”

After he left, she flung herself across her bed to quiet her racing heart, her hand still tingling from where Henry’s lips touched her skin. Finally, she thinks she can grasp at what possessed her father to risk his kingdom and his throne for her mother to wear a crown beside him. 

~

Henry, as she finds she can now call him with ease, dined at her side each day for three weeks, accompanied her when she strolled through the gardens for hours on end, and rode with her through the countryside whenever the weather permitted such an endeavor. No one questioned their sudden friendship; she was far too careful to let rumors of an affair between herself and the Earl of Richmond spread throughout court.

Nonetheless, she found herself questioning her own logic with each passing day as she and Henry grew closer. There was no doubt that an attraction existed between them, both physical and emotional. She felt it every time he brushed his hand over hers or sent her a tender smile from across the hall. She sensed it when he said her name and when she would catch him staring at her long after she had entered a room, or when he danced with her at soirées and held her a bit too closely than deemed acceptable.

What horrified her the most was how torn she was between her duty as a wife and consort - as a loving sister - and her selfish, unabated desire for love, something she knew she felt for the man she should be calling her brother-in-law. The thought of betraying Charles and Cecily by feeling more than familial affection for Henry sickened her, and yet she knew that it was too late to disregard her sentiments now, for she was undeniably and unfailingly in love with Henry Tudor.

Though she reveled the power and influence she wielded as Queen of France and she cared for Charles, she could not deny that the love she felt for her husband is nothing more than one of friendship and, if given the chance, she would swap her crown for the chance to marry a man she truly loved without hesitation. 

She was able to hide these thoughts from Henry for some time, although she was guilty of encouraging his attention by keeping him at court for so long. But she found that she could not bear the thought of sending him away, especially since his departure would mean that she might never see him alive again. It was certainly no trial to convince Charles that she felt nothing for Henry whatsoever; Charles, for all his goodness, was a naive fifteen year-old boy who could never fathom the idea that his dutiful English wife would ever break her vows.

In the end, though, she did not give in to carnal desire. Each time she found herself contemplating such scandalous thoughts, the image of Jane Shore’s face would appear in her mind. It was the memory of her mother’s unhappiness with her father’s infidelity that resolved her to give up her girlish infatuation with Henry Tudor and to model herself after the virtuous Elizabeth Woodville rather than the sinful girl her father had dallied with.

So, she sent Henry off to prepare for his invasion of England with a false smile on her face and a parting gift of French soldiers to bolster his army. Henry did not question her abrupt request for his imminent departure; instead, he played along and made it seem as though he decided to leave himself. He was no fool - Elizabeth was well aware that he could read her intentions and her emotions with little effort.

Elizabeth was nothing but gracious as Henry gave her what she knew might be their first and last goodbye, pressing her hand once more to his lips with a heated fire in his eyes that she had become accustomed to seeing in him. Yet, nothing could dispense the feeling that her heart was breaking in two when he climbed atop his horse and rode out of the castle gates with his entourage following in his wake. 

No one, not even Charles, saw him discreetly press an embroidered handkerchief to his lips as he left but Elizabeth, knowing exactly what Henry was saying with that one, small gesture. And thankfully, no one saw that single treacherous tear roll down her cheek as she watched Henry Tudor ride away from Amboise and away from her. 

And no one will ever know of the secret kiss they shared in her chambers just hours before he left, how he barged into her room without an invitation, swept her into his arms, and pressed his lips onto hers with such force that she was nearly swept off her feet. That was a secret they would share until the end of their days, a secret that she felt no guilt over because she knew that the kiss was nothing more than a desperate goodbye, an affirmation of their unspoken agreement to love another.

Perhaps, in another life, she could have been his queen.

~

On the same, late August day that she learned Richard has fallen to Henry Tudor in battle on Bosworth Field, she discovered that she is with child. Charles was overjoyed and showered her with extravagant jewels and silks to express his gratitude but she found that she was more relieved to hear of her uncle’s death and Henry’s accession than she was of her pregnancy. After all, her allegiance was to England first and foremost and nothing was more satisfying to her than the long-awaited news of Richard’s demise at Tudor’s hand. Now, she thinks the souls of her father and brothers can finally rest in peace.

Secretly, she is jubilant that it is Richard and not Henry whose corpse lays on a blood-soaked field, unwanted and forgotten.

Because she was in the midst of the final stage of her pregnancy when Cecily weds Henry Tudor and becomes his queen, Elizabeth is unable to leave France, so she sent Joan in her stead to attend the wedding. She was undoubtedly disappointed that she could not visit her family and her home but she was well aware of the importance of the health and life of the child she carried in her womb.

She delivered the long-awaited heir to the throne just a few months after her twentieth birthday in a painful yet relatively quick birth that has her wondering exactly how her mother produced so many healthy children as easily as she made it seem. Charles, now nearly sixteen years old, looks as though he might cry when he holds their wailing son in his arms for the first time and presses an appreciate kiss to her sweaty forehead, murmuring how thankful and blessed he is to have her as his wife. 

Though her son is named after his father, she is amazed at how much he favors her physically. Much to her relief, he looks nothing like his Valois relatives, with his auburn tuft of hair and light blue eyes, and once she was able to cradle him against her breast and feel his chest rise and fall against her own, she was overwhelmed by the sheer wave of love she felt for the child she worked so hard to bring into the world - a boy with English blood who will one day inherit the Kingdom of France.

She gives birth to a rapid succession of children in the coming years. Two years after Charles comes Francis, another auburn-haired, blue-eyed babe who is given the title of Duke of Anjou at his christening. A year later she labors to deliver John. For a time she believed she might die in the birthing bed but eventually her third son managed to emerge from her womb alive and well and she holds onto life herself, though she has to spend months recovering from the birth before she can share a bed with her husband again. 

While her days were now consumed with caring for her children, she found time to write to her mother and her sisters regularly. Cecily is now the mother of two healthy children - a two year-old son named Edmund, born on Christmas Day in the same year as Charles, and a two month-old girl called Mary. From what Elizabeth hears from her mother, who now resides at Bermondsey Abbey, Cecily was flourishing as Henry’s consort and has grown to love the man no one ever fathomed she would one day call her husband.

Although she was happy for her sister, Elizabeth was to not feel a twinge of jealousy every time she read the gushing letters Cecily sent. Even after all this time, she still imagines what it would be like to be in her sister’s place as the mother of Henry’s children.

She was in the midst of her seclusion with her fourth child when she was told that John, barely a year old, has died of the measles and she feels as though she might die herself from the wave of grief that overcomes her. Although she never had the chance to spend much time with her newborn son due to the months she spent in bed after his birth, she mourns the loss of her infant son so intensely that Charles himself has to comfort her. Though Charles is not supposed to be with her during her confinement, he spends every night holding her as she sobbed and wailed, physically unable to attend the funeral of her own son.

The arrival of her first daughter, Louise, brings her and Charles some much-needed solace. Their next son, Robert, is born in her twenty-sixth year and inherits John’s old title of Duke of Berry upon his birth. Finally, another daughter, Margaret, arrives when she is twenty-eight and Charles twenty-four. Much to her relief, all her surviving children favor her physically with the minor exceptions of Louise, who has her father’s dark eyes, and Robert, who possesses his brown hair.

It was during her pregnancy with Robert that she received word that her mother has passed and once again, she was not able to sail to England to attend the funeral. Instead, she can do nothing more than read the letters her sisters send detailing the solemn burial of Elizabeth Woodville. She spends the weeks after the ceremony conjuring up memories of her mother alive and well - rocking her to sleep all those years ago, holding her in her arms during those frightful nights they spent holed up in Westminster Abbey, and bidding her farewell nearly a decade ago when she left for France. 

To this day, she can still see the tears shining in her mother’s eyes when she kissed her goodbye and hear her parting words as clear as the day she last saw her. She only wished her mother could see her now, as a queen and a mother herself, but it is enough to know that on her deathbed, the Queen Dowager told Cecily to send Elizabeth her undying love.

~

Elizabeth was able to set foot on English soil for the first time in twelve years when Charles was away in Italy fighting for the Neapolitan crown, a war he was still fighting despite being named the King of Naples just months ago. She was twenty-nine now and a mother of five adoring children, nearly all of whom shared the same physical features but completely different personalities.

Charles, now nine years old, was a mirror image of Elizabeth’s father in nearly every way. Despite his age, he was charming and charismatic, imposing and confident. Elizabeth made sure he took his position as Dauphin seriously from an early age, having him attend council meetings with her and accompany his father on diplomatic appointments. While he shared her late father’s love for battle and militaristic might, she ensured that he never adopted Edward’s lust for women and pleasure, instilling in him a deep sense of honor and chivalry that the other men in her family had lacked. 

Francis, on the other hand, was much more subdued and intellectual, preferring to spend his time with his studies pouring over thick volumes in the library. He was a quiet seven year-old, shy and timid upon first impression, but with each passing year he was becoming more and more confident, much to Elizabeth and Charles’s relief. Louise was the same, if not a bit bolder than her older brother, and much to Elizabeth’s amusement, she favored scepters and crowns over dolls and ribbons. Although Louise could never be a queen in her own right, Elizabeth could easily marry her to a powerful king when the time was right and give her a throne to match.

Her youngest children, Robert and Margaret, were headstrong and willful, full of boundless energy that never seemed to abate. Robert, just three years old, was already grasping for the chance to wield a sword and shield of his own and judging by his progressing skill on a horse, Charles was sure that he would be a fearsome general once he was grown. Margaret, on the other hand, was far too young to have an identity of her own yet, but Elizabeth was sure that her infant daughter - the child who favored her the most physically - would follow in her maternal grandmother’s footsteps and find a way to seize control of her own life. Of all her children, Robert and Margaret were the most like their daunting Plantagenet ancestors, which Elizabeth found herself taking quiet pleasure in.

When she received word of her sister Catherine’s engagement to William Courtenay, the Earl of Devon - a trusted accomplice of her kingly brother-in-law - she persuaded Charles to allow her and the children to journey to England to attend the wedding. As Charles was preoccupied with his war in Naples, it was easy to secure his permission to travel to England and leave the regency of the kingdom in the hands of his councilors and his sister Anne, who relinquished her role as regent when Charles reached his majority not long after John’s death and Louise’s birth.

When she finally landed in Dover, Margaret in her arms and Robert and Louise clutching at her skirts with Francis and Charles at her side, Cecily and her husband, now King Henry VII, were there to greet her at the dock with their own children. Cecily had two more children since Mary’s birth - another daughter named Elizabeth, after their late mother, and a son, Edward, after their lamented father. 

Cecily erupted into tears when Elizabeth and her children disembarked their vessel, an action Elizabeth quickly mimicked upon taking her sister in her arms. Cecily was no longer the spindly, thirteen year-old girl who fawned over the songs of valiant knights rescuing beautiful ladies and talked longingly of pretty dresses and twinkling jewels. In that young girl’s place was an elegant woman of twenty-six years, a queen attired in rich fabrics and fur-lined robes. 

Neither of them looked like the girls they had once been; age and multiple pregnancies had changed their bodies, enhanced their curves, and softened out the once firm areas of youth. But Cecily’s twinkling laughter and bright, blue-gray eyes were still the same and for a moment, Elizabeth could pretend like they were still naive young girls untouched by the vestiges of womanhood - princesses instead of queens, daughters instead of mothers. 

“Goodness, Bess,” Cecily tutted with a shake of her head, astonishment sparkling in her eyes. “For a moment I thought you were Mother back from the grave!”

Elizabeth shrugged off her sister’s well-meaning comment, not willing to conjure up painful memories of their late mother, and turned her attention to the brother-in-law she had last seen riding out of the castle gates to an uncertain battlefield, “It is a pleasure to finally see you once again, Your Majesty. My sister has spoken so fondly of you these past years.”

Henry Tudor, his hair graying and his face lined with age, gave her a wry smile and took her hand to place a chaste kiss upon her skin, just as he had done nearly a decade ago, “She has done the same for you, Your Grace. In fact, she has talked of you so frequently of late I fear I will learn nothing new about you during your stay with us.”

Both Elizabeth and Cecily laughed and Elizabeth was grateful to make use of the comical moment to hide the flush of her cheeks. While her youthful passion for Henry had abated with time and distance, she still felt a spark of burning affection when his eyes met her own and a soft, tender smile graced his lips. Judging by the way he returned her heated gaze, she knew that after all this time, he still felt the same for her. 

But he clearly loved her sister, if not passionately than amicably, and she would never betray her husband’s reputation or her children’s inheritance, so with that one shared gaze they silently agree to keep their relationship nothing more than familial.

Cecily fawned over her children upon their introductions to their English aunt and uncle, seemingly taken aback by how they all favored their York relatives as opposed to their father’s Valois lineage. Elizabeth was equally as surprised to see how alike Cecily’s children looked with her own. Eight year-old Edmund and six year-old Mary were nearly identical with their fair skin, auburn hair, and deep blue eyes, while Elizabeth and Edward, two years-old and four months respectively, had the same red-gold locks of their mother, albeit lighter, and her blue-gray orbs. 

Elizabeth swallowed back tears when she heard the names of Cecily’s youngest daughter and son in person, to which Cecily responded by giving her hand a comforting squeeze and murmuring, “We call them Lizzie and Ed for now, to distinguish them from Mother and Father. I do hope it doesn’t upset you…”

“No, no,” Elizabeth reassured her with a feeble smile, watching as her children mingled with their English cousins. “I don’t mind at all.”

Catherine’s wedding to the Earl of Devon went off without a hitch the following week and it did Elizabeth good to see how happy her younger sister was when Henry escorted her down the aisle. Like Cecily, Catherine greeted her with tears when they reunite, and though she knows that Catherine is not the three year-old babe she remembers, it does not ease the shock of seeing her as a sixteen year-old woman. She was able to see her other sisters, Anne and Bridget, at the wedding as well, and their reactions upon seeing her again are equally as unsurprisingly emotional as Cecily and Catherine’s.

Anne was nearly twenty now, the wife of Thomas Howard, the son and heir of the Duke of Norfolk, and pregnant with her first child. Bridget, who was just a babe of two years when Elizabeth left for France, was fourteen now and took the veil at Dartford Priory in Kent, something Elizabeth knew her parents intended for her to do from the time of her birth.

While she enjoyed dining with her three sisters and their husbands amidst the boisterous wedding celebrations, laughing themselves silly when they bring up recollections of their childhood, Elizabeth found herself thinking of what it would have been like if their brothers had lived past boyhood, if their sisters who died young were alive and well today, if their father had lived just a bit longer and little Edward could have ascended to the throne as a man grown instead of an insecure child…

She pushed these dour thoughts aside when she saw her three boys racing about the castle halls with a giggling Edmund behind them while Louise and Mary doted over baby Margaret, Elizabeth, and Edward. What could have been did not matter now, that much she was aware. The world would one day belong to her children and their cousins and she would do everything in her power to ensure that they would never have the same turbulent, bloody childhood she and her sisters experienced. 

During her stay, she spoke to Henry only in the company of others and made sure that they were never alone in a room together. Despite their age, she knew that time had only made the heart grow fonder and she simply did not trust herself to be in too close of a proximity to him. But that does not stop her from going to bed each night wondering if Henry thought of her when he shared her sister’s bed, if he pictures her face at night instead of Cecily’s.

When she and her children finally leave and board the ship headed back to France, Henry bids her goodbye formally, as any kingly brother would, but it is when she stands upon the ship’s deck and sees him pull out a familiar handkerchief faded and frayed with age that she knows his love for her has never abated.

It breaks her heart to think that if she had just been able to wait a bit longer, she would have been the one taking his name.

~

Elizabeth’s tenure as Queen of France came to an end after just four years but it was following her husband’s death that her reign truly began.

She was thirty-two years old and the mother of five young children under the age of thirteen when she became a widow. Charles’s death was as unexpected, to say the least, and it came as a true shock to everyone, no one more than Elizabeth herself. Charles had always been of ill-health, even for a man of just twenty-seven, but when he had accidentally hit his head on the lintel of a door while on his way to watch a tennis match, Elizabeth never thought that such a seemingly insignificant blunder could result in her husband’s demise.

Hours after the accident, a manservant came rushing towards her during an afternoon stroll in the gardens, his face ashen and his voice trembling as he informed her that Charles had slipped into an abrupt coma. 

She stayed at his bedside for nine hours until he finally passed, holding his hand right up to the very end. Though she had never loved her husband in a romantic sense, she found herself mourning Charles’s death as strongly as those of her parents. She had grown to care for Charles as a valuable companion and friend over the past few years, especially after the births of their children. Her success in the birthing bed only seemed to inflame Charles’s affection for her, something she was very keen of yet unable to reciprocate in anything more than friendship.

And yet, as she sat by his side while he slowly fell into oblivion, she found herself unable to stop the tears from streaming down her cheeks. Charles, for all his faults, had been a loyal husband and a doting father. And above all, although he would never be remembered as a fortuitous king, no one could deny the love he held for his country. He had been a well-meaning ruler despite the ultimate failure that had been his conquest of Naples and the debt France had fallen into as a result of his ambition. With his death, young Charles would be called upon to wear the heavy crown at the same age Elizabeth’s brother had been when he had to do the same. But she would be damned if she allowed her son to share her brother’s fate.

Charles’s coronation was a sober affair, having occurred just weeks after they laid his father to rest. Charles had taken his father’s death hard but, aware of his duty, betrayed no emotion as the Archbishop of Reims placed Charlemagne’s crown atop his brow and anointed his breast with holy oil, declaring him “King Charles IX of France” amidst the fanfare of the commonwealth gathered outside the cathedral’s walls. 

She was immensely proud of her son in that moment, watching him receive the Holy Communion as the peers of the realm cried out, “Vive le roi!”, confirming their affirmation of their new king while the cathedral’s bells toiled above. Their excitement was so exuberant, their testimony so overpowering that no one but Elizabeth stopped to think that a king of English blood was finally sitting atop the French throne, a king crafted in her family’s image.

As Queen Mother, Elizabeth was named her son’s principal regent in Charles’s will, giving her complete access to the reins of the power. While some lords did quietly protest her appointment, she accepted her new position without significant public outrage. She had worked tirelessly in the last fourteen years to perfect her public image, to obtain the complete and total love of the people through simple goodness and acts of charity. Now, as the unofficial ruler of France, her efforts had paid off considerably. 

She held the role of regent for nine years and during her tenure the kingdom flourished markedly. War, both civil and foreign was avoided, trade prospered, the debt her husband had left behind was paid off, and the dynasty remained secure. Even after Charles reached his twenty-first year and obtained his majority, she stayed on at court as his principal advisor with Francis and Robert joining their brother’s council.

Elizabeth did not remarry, despite numerous offers from French lords, English nobles, and foreign princes. Marrying again would simply complicate her status at court and do away with the influence she held over her son and his councillors. No, she was far too content with the power she held now to sweep it all away in exchange for an assertive husband and another trip to the birthing bed. 

When it came time for her to arrange advantageous marriages for her own children, she realized how imperative it had been for her mother to do the same with Elizabeth and her siblings so many years ago. But, having been pushed into an unwanted marriage herself, she made sure that while the men and women her children wed were not only suitable but acceptable in their eyes.

Francis was the first to marry at nineteen to Germaine of Foix, a French noblewoman of the same age who also happened to be the niece of the Duke of Orléans. Germaine was a sweet girl with a sympathetic disposition, which complimented Francis’s quiet, studious nature. They suited each other well, just as their match eased the unsubtle tension between the Crown and the House of Orléans.

A few months later, she accompanied Louise to Glasgow to see her wed King James IV of Scotland. Though James, a handsome and belligerent man, was nearly two decades her daughter’s senior and already had a litany of illegitimate children, Louise was taken with the charming Scottish king almost immediately. He was equally affectionate towards her, especially once she publicly showed her acceptance of his bastards by allowing them to live in the royal residence. However, Elizabeth was well aware that Louise’s attraction towards James and her informal adoption of the children he produced out of wedlock was a result of her satisfaction to be called a queen and to wear a crown of her own.

It was just about nine months after the wedding when Elizabeth received word that Louise has given birth to a healthy baby boy named James, a future king of Scotland. She was a grandmother at forty-two, a title affirmed twice over the following year when Germaine delivered an auburn-haired babe named Charlotte.

The marriage the entire kingdom had been waiting for occurred just a year after Charlotte’s birth, when Charles took Marguerite of Angoulême as his wife. Elizabeth took a shine to Marguerite immediately, not because of her dignified ancestry or the hefty dowry she brought into the marriage, but because of her confidence, poise, and her ability to balance grace with austerity. She also ensured that both her son and Marguerite desired the marriage, as she had no intention of her forcing Charles into a loveless match for the sake of wealth and prestige.

Nearly all of her children were married with families of their own by her forty-eighth year. Francis and Germaine had two more children after Charlotte, a doe-eyed daughter named Anne and a sweet boy named Francis after his father. Robert, who married Eleanor of Austria, the elder sister of the Holy Roman Emperor, was excepting his first child. Louise, now the Queen Dowager of Scotland after her husband’s death in battle against England a year previously, held the position of regent for her five year-old son, James V, while also raising a newborn daughter, Joan.

Marguerite was heavy with her first child when Elizabeth traveled back to England to attend her youngest daughter’s wedding. Elizabeth had always expected to marry off one of her children to their English cousins, so it had not come as a surprise when Margaret, who had been exchanging letters with Henry and Cecily’s second eldest son - Edward - for years, voiced her strong desire to become Edward’s wife. Henry and Cecily had been equally fond of the match and the betrothal was formalized in no time at all, much to Margaret’s delight. 

All of Elizabeth’s children were present at the wedding. Despite the advice of his advisors, Charles refused to miss his youngest sister’s wedding and accompanied Margaret and Elizabeth to London, leaving Marguerite to govern as regent in his stead. Francis and Robert were present for the ceremony as well, both having to come without their wives as both Eleanor and Germaine were pregnant as well. Even Louise managed to escape her duties in Scotland to watch her sister become the Duchess of York, taking James and Joan with her so Elizabeth could see her Scottish grandchildren for the first time.

Regardless of the festivities, Elizabeth could not help but notice the somber atmosphere that pervaded Richmond Palace upon her arrival. Though it had been two years since Cecily had suddenly taken ill and passed on, much of the castle’s inhabitants, including Henry himself, were still in mourning for their lost queen. Knowing this, it still came as somewhat of a surprise to see how greatly Henry’s health had taken a turn for the worst after Cecily’s death.

Now fifty-seven, he was a shell of the strong, robust young man Elizabeth had first met all those years ago. What little hair he had left was now completely gray and he was nothing more than skin and bones, needing a cane to walk from one end of the room to another. He had a gaunt, haggard look about him and could barely spit out more than a few sentences without having to catch his breath. But the enchanting deep blue of his eyes still remained unchanged and once again, Elizabeth found herself getting lost in them whenever she met Henry’s gaze.

It was because she knew how little time Henry had left that she chose to stay in England after the wedding. While her youngest children believed she was prolonging her visit due to homesickness, Charles had understood her true intentions and bid her farewell with no more than a kiss and a sad, knowing smile that had her questioning how much he really knew of her heart’s secret sentiments. 

She spent most of her time at Henry’s bedside helping him eat and drink, reading to him when he grew restless, and simply talking to him when he could not sleep. She had company in the form of Margaret and Edward along with Henry’s other children - Edmund and his wife, Catherine of Aragon, Mary, Elizabeth, and their husbands, as well as the two youngest children of Henry’s that she had never met - Jasper and Katherine.

He finally passed three weeks to the day after she first arrived and one day after she received word that Marguerite had delivered a healthy son - Henry - peacefully, in his sleep. She was there when he breathed his last, of course, but it was not until after they removed his body from the room that she allowed herself to break down in her daughter’s arms - not because Henry was gone but because that even on his deathbed, she never built up the courage to tell him that she loved him.

But in the end, she realized that she never needed to say those words to convince him of her feelings, for his body was being prepared for the funeral, a faded and frayed handkerchief was found mysteriously clasped in his fist.


End file.
